The Dominatrix
by fenraven
Summary: Sylar seeks out a dominatrix for punishment for his crimes. Explicit adult content. Over 18 only.


**The Dominatrix (Sylar)  
**

I opened the door to his knock and looked at him. He was tall and dark-haired, dressed in black. His eyes were haunted. I knew what he wanted immediately, or I thought I did.

This man had power—it emanated from him in palpable waves—and men of power often wanted to be tied up, abused, sometimes humiliated, as if to atone for something.

"Come in," I said and stepped back. He entered my work space: a large room empty of almost everything, but lining the walls was a variety of 'tools' I used in my job. I'm a dominatrix, and I'm damn good at it. People hear about me through word of mouth, but sometimes they see the ads I put up at various clubs around town. That's how this one found me, through an ad.

"You're Sylar?"

He nodded. He had a good body; I saw that right away. Lean, no fat, but muscled. I liked that about him. Some of the guys that came to me? Pudgy, out of shape, not pleasant to look at or touch. I found myself wanting to touch Sylar.

"What are you interested in?" I asked.

He looked around the bare room. "I want to be punished." Fixing me with his dark eyes, he repeated, "Punished."

Something lurched inside me. "Take off your coat. Throw it over there, on the floor."

He did so without question. I studied him a moment. Yes, great body, limned by tight black pants and shirt.

"Have you ever come to someone like me before?" I asked. He shook his head. "The safe word is 'velvet.' You say that, and I stop what I'm doing immediately, got it?"

He nodded, and turned to face me, stance open, inviting. His eyes swept over my black bustier and thigh-high boots, lingering on the whip I held in my right hand. "A little theatrical, don't you think?" he commented with a small smile.

I returned the smile. "My customers expect me to look like this. You would prefer something different?"

His smile faded. "It will do. Proceed."

Pointing with the whip, I directed him over to the west wall. He complied. I fastened a handcuff around each wrist, and leg cuffs around each ankle. There was some play in the chain length, but for the most part, he was immobilized. He did not protest, but watched me silently as I made him my prisoner.

Leaning in very close, I whispered, "You will do exactly as I say, at all times, or I will beat you. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

I walked back and forth in front of him for a moment, looking him up and down. "I don't like your clothes. They keep me from seeing you." I walked over to a small table, upon which stood various implements. Choosing the ceremonial knife, I walked back to him. The blade was six inches long and curved. I slowly waved it in front of his face for a moment, bending the knife so it flashed in the light.

It's a game, you know. Most of my clients don't really want to be hurt, they just want to feel like they might be. Sylar was different, but I didn't realize yet how different.

Slipping the blade between shirt and skin, I sliced off the buttons, one by one, hearing them plink as they bounced off the floor. He watched me calmly as I pulled the shirt open, revealing his chest. Oh, yes, so beautiful! The 'real' me reacted instantly, wanting to kiss, lick, and stroke.

But I was the dominatrix tonight, so I gently stuck the point of my knife into his skin, between his nipples, drawing a small bead of blood. And then I reached down between his legs and stroked his crotch. He hardened instantly against my hand.

"Stick it in me," he said.

Momentarily, I was confused. "What?"

"The knife," he said. "Stick it in me."

My heart started beating faster. "I…I can't do that." This was not in the script. Was he asking me to kill him?

"Do it. Don't be afraid."

Our eyes had locked. He knew what he wanted, there was no hesitation. Almost against my will, I grasped the hilt of the knife and drove it home, right into his heart. His head fell back, his eyes closed, and a low groan escaped his mouth. Pain? Desire? I watched the blood pour down his body and drew the knife out, shocked at what I had done.

I was shocked again when the wound healed before my eyes and the bleeding stopped. My mouth dropped open. Looking at him, I said, "This is too weird. I want you out of here. Now."

"Wait," he said, and something stilled my hands as they moved to unlock the cuffs. "Listen to me. You cannot hurt me. But I need this, and I will have it. It's what I'm paying you for."

Breathing heavily, I looked into his dark eyes. They were haunted, yes they were, and something in the tone of his voice made me remain, awaiting his next command. Because suddenly our roles had reversed. I was no longer in charge; he was.

"Cut me," he said, and I heard the undertone of longing in his voice. "Cut me deep, make me bleed, make me pay." The last words came out in a desperate rasp.

My hand moved of its own accord, slicing him across his beautiful chest. The skin parted, blood flowed…and then the cut healed, the blood stopped. I felt a bit ill.

"Touch me," he demanded. "Make me feel… something, anything." I ran my hand along the back of his erection. "Take it out, so I can feel your skin against me."

I unzipped his pants, pushed them down, drew out his cock. Like the rest of him, it was beautiful. I knelt before him and covered the head with my mouth. He gasped and jerked between my lips.

"Teeth," he whispered. "Just a little…"

I grazed the head with my teeth and heard him sigh with satisfaction.

"More, more…"

I worked my mouth over him, using my teeth, my tongue, my lips. His hips began to move as he thrust, choking me. I didn't care, I was past caring; I wanted this, needed this, and was amazed at my lack of caring.

He could have killed me then, and I don't think I would have minded.

His breathing quickened, I heard him gasping for air, groaning in pleasure (or was it pain?) and I let him punish my mouth, because that's what he was doing, punishing me, when it was I that should have been punishing him.

He lit a fire between my legs that only my hands could put out. I stroked myself furiously as he ravaged my mouth and throat, and when he came, he didn't just cry out, he screamed a sound so primal, it set off my own orgasm and chilled my blood to freezing.

He hung in his chains, leaning against the wall for support. Slowly, I stood and undid the cuffs that bound him, hand and leg. He sank to the floor, head bowed.

I knelt before him, and we were again at the same level. He raised his head and looked at me. "Thank you."

Incapable of speech, I nodded, feeling it should be me that should thank him.

Standing, he pulled up his pants, tucked his buttonless shirt in, and retrieved his coat. Throwing some money on the small table, he walked toward the door.

I had not moved. I was still on the floor, boneless and exhausted, staring at the wall.

"You'll be back," I said, and it wasn't a question.

I heard the door open.

"I'll be back," he said quietly, and I heard the door close behind him as he left.

Part 2

His fallen angel's face and haunted eyes came to me at odd moments over the next few days while I went about my business. During the evenings only, I was Lady Night, but for a few hours each day, I took classes at the local college, trying to earn my degree in psychiatry.

What I did for a living and the things I did at the request of clients were often harsh, but I'd never run into anyone like Sylar before. Unexpectedly, while folding laundry or listening to a professor in class, I'd re-live the feel of the knife sinking into his flesh, see the blood pour out, and start shaking. I hoped never to see him again.

Yet I couldn't wait to see him again, because I also vividly remembered the fierceness with which he'd come, and I wanted to experience that again.

I never accepted direct calls from clients. They all went through a service, leaving me messages which I returned if I felt like it. Listening to the recordings one afternoon, I heard his voice and my heart started beating faster.

"Tomorrow evening, 8pm." A pause. "Do not deny me."

A wave of cold went through me, but I sent him confirmation and slowly hung up the phone. I noticed my hand was shaking, just a little.

I could not get him out of my mind, and as the time approached when he would arrive, a trembling set into my stomach that I could not banish. I had cancelled all other appointments that evening so I would not be distracted.

I arrived at my Torture Chamber (the name I playfully used to describe the loft I reserved for client use only) around 7 that evening. Unable to eat, I slugged down two glasses of red wine and carefully dressed in a long black velvet dress with a deep slit up one side. Underneath, I wore a garter belt and black stockings, but no panties. I rimmed my vivid green eyes with kohl and covered my lips in blood-red lipstick. My hip-length hair was almost black in color, and I left it loose. Staring at myself in the mirror, I said softly, "I'm in charge, not Sylar. I _am_ in charge, not Sylar. This is my job and I'm good at it."

Feeling calmer, I sat down on one of only two chairs in the place, crossed my legs, and waited.

When the knock came, I counted to five before rising to open the door. He looked much the same as he had the last time, dressed all in black, the dark eyes troubled. He did not smile. Neither did I.

I stepped back to allow him entrance. As he passed me, I caught the faintest whiff of scent, something that spoke of shadows and moonlight.

He stopped in the middle of the room and withdrew something from inside his jacket. As he turned, I saw it was a cat o' nine tails. Not the gentle substitution I used on my clients, but the real thing, made of leather with nine knotted cords of cotton, designed to lacerate the skin and cause intense pain. I shivered inside.

He held it out to me. "Use this."

I accepted it from him with an impassive face. "Remove your coat and shirt."

While he did that, I moved to the left side of the room, where I attached metal handcuffs to two thick chains depending from rings in the ceiling. Without turning, I said, "Come here."

Shirtless, he walked over to stand in front of me. Without my asking, he raised his arms and I closed the cuffs around his wrists. His eyes closed. I walked around him, looking him up and down. He truly had a magnificent body, the skin smooth and taut over strong muscle.

Standing behind him, I briefly wondered what he's done that made him seek pain and punishment at my hands. Raising the whip, I brought it down hard against his back, the tails ripping the skin open. Blood pooled and started to run. Without waiting, I hit him again, as hard as I could.

I heard his ragged breathing, but he made no sound as I continued, counting to five before I paused.

"More?" I asked.

"More," he ground out, so I continued lashing him with the tails until I hit ten. The oldest strikes managed to heal under the newest as I administered them, but the accumulating blood made his back a gruesome sight.

Again, I paused, and this time he said, "Velvet."

I dropped the cat o' nine tails to the wood floor before moving around to face him. He was pale, his long eyelashes dark against his cheeks. Sweat ran down his chest. Leaning forward, I stuck out my tongue and licked up some of it. He sighed and opened his eyes.

"I am not ready to release you yet," I said firmly.

He watched my eyes as I undid his pants and slid them down over his narrow hips. Reaching for him, I stroked the soft skin and he hardened.

When he opened his mouth to speak, I said sharply, "No talking from you, unless I request it."

Obediently, he remained silent while I continued to give attention to his penis. He was responsive to every touch, willingly giving in to his pleasure with as great a freedom as he'd welcomed the pain. When I'd worked him to the point of coming, I stopped and stepped back. Breathing hard, he watched me, eyes glittering with need.

I walked over to where I'd placed my wine, picked up the glass, and sipped leisurely, watching him over the rim of the glass.

I strolled back over to him. "Are you thirsty?"

He did not answer. I let a tiny smile curve my lips. Finishing the wine, I threw the glass to the floor, where it shattered. Picking up the largest shard, I ran the edge against his chest. A line of blood appeared and he drew breath sharply. Working his cock with one hand, I continued to tease him with the glass in the other. His excitement level rose ever higher, but again, when he was about to come, I stopped.

"You will not find release until I decide to give it to you," I said, and plunged the glass into the smooth skin over his stomach. A grunt of pain escaped him and moisture beaded on his forehead. I dropped to my knees and took him into my mouth. Ah, he liked that. His whole body strained toward me, begging for me finish it.

But I hadn't had my fun yet, so I sat down on the floor, lifted the velvet skirt, and spread my legs. He watched as I stimulated myself, his body trembling with desire. The expression of longing on his face and in his eyes made me crazy. It took me only moments to reach orgasm.

Still panting, I closed my lips around him again and I knew there would be no stopping him this time. I sucked hard, edging the delicate skin with my teeth, and heard his breathing abruptly change as he went over the edge. When that primal scream ripped out of his throat, I shuddered in response, as if I was coming again, along with him. Wetness poured out of me and down my thighs.

Sitting down hard on the floor, I glanced up at him. His sooty eyelashes lay against his white cheeks once more, giving him a strangely vulnerable look, and his full lips were parted as breath rapidly moved in and out of him. His skin glistened with the sweat of pain and pleasure, and I thought him the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.

Getting to my feet, I went into the bathroom, ran a washcloth under hot water, and returned to gently wipe the blood off his chest and back. He stayed still under my ministrations, saying nothing but watching me whenever I was in view. His eyes were quiet now, as if he'd found some temporary peace from the demons that beset him.

I released him from the cuffs and his arms dropped to encircle me in a loose hug. "Thank you."

He donned his shirt and jacket and, once again, dropped several bills on the table. At the door, he stopped and looked at me for one long moment. Then he opened the door, walked through it, and closed it behind him. I heard his footsteps going down the hall.

This time, no words were necessary. We both knew he would be back.

Part 3

It went on like that for several weeks; I would restrain him, inflict horrible pain on his body, and then give him a hand or blow job which always culminated in incredible orgasms. He didn't seem to need or want anything more, and as he was paying me, I did as he wished.

Familiarity with the routine made it easier to perform as he required, but a part of me always cringed away from the terrible things I did to him. I particularly hated the episode that employed a heated branding iron. Even now, I can taste the stench of burning flesh in the back of my throat.

But everything changed the day he appeared dressed like my friend's computer geek son, Ryan. When I opened the door, I barely recognized him, he looked so different. Dressed in a pair of brown cords, a pressed shirt and a sweater vest pulled over that, his dark hair side-parted and swept behind his ears, black-framed glasses over his eyes, and beard stubble completely gone, he looked like any shy young man walking down the street or browsing in a book store.

I stared at him, at a loss for words. Not that we ever spoke much, but he'd really surprised me.

Gently biting his lip, he smiled. "Hi, I'm Gabriel."

"Uh-huh." What the fuck kind of new crazy was this? "Want to come in?"

He stepped into the Torture Chamber, looking as out of place as a bird swimming with fish. "You don't have much furniture in here," he commented, looking around.

Was I supposed to think this was funny? I suddenly wondered if he suffered from multiple personalities.

I had dressed for one of our usual sessions, in a black silk dress that floated along my curves all the way to the floor, slit up the front to reveal black silk stockings. I pressed my blood-red lips together and watched him walk around, perusing the accoutrements of my profession, fingering the leather ties and wickedly sharp knives with distaste.

He turned to look at me. "I'd like to take you out tonight, to dinner."

Bemused, I continued to stare at him.

His brow crinkled. "What is it?"

Okay, this was getting ridiculous. "Game's over, Sylar. Why don't we just get down to it?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I am not Sylar. My name is Gabriel, Gabriel Gray."

I laughed harshly. "Have it your way. Gabriel. You'll pay me for my time regardless, so just tell me what you want."

His eyes darkened briefly. "I want to take you out to dinner."

Tilting my head, I nodded. "Fine. I am not really dressed for it, though."

His eyes swept over my silk dress. "I'll wait while you change."

Grumbling to myself, I went into the bedroom and pawed through the closet. These were my work clothes, but surely, I could find something appropriate for a dinner with a geeky looking guy like Gabriel. Huh. I was already thinking of him as Gabriel, not Syler. Maybe I was getting as sick in the head as he was.

Everything was black, black, black…wait, there was a red silk blouse. I paired it with a mid-calf length black skirt and decided that would do. My 'normal' clothes were at my apartment, eight blocks away. I doubt he'd want to wait while I ran down there to get something more spring-like.

And why did I even fucking care? This whole situation had suddenly turned bizarre, and I did hear the theme to Twilight Zone playing in the back of my mind as I rejoined him in the front room.

He smiled his approval. "You look very nice. Shall we go?"

He took me to a small, dark restaurant a few blocks away. As it was close to where I lived, I'd been there many times. The food was great, the lighting was flattering to women of a certain age (not that I was worrying about that yet, but it never hurts to plan ahead), and you could enjoy a quiet dinner without someone sticking an accordion in your face. He chose a table for two in a back corner, away from the kitchen noise and the front door opening and closing as people came and went.

A waitress brought menus, which we perused quickly. He looked at me. "What would you like?"

I frowned at him, still caught in confusion. "The fish."

Gabriel relayed my order to the waitress, adding his own, then handed her the menus. "What would you like to drink?"

"Wine?"

He smiled. "Make that two, the house Merlot," he said to the waitress.

I leaned back, staring at him. Who was this guy? He had manners, that was obvious. But where was the man who liked to be handcuffed and walked on with high heels? Who the hell was Gabriel?

He told me about his job as a watchmaker while we waited for our meal. I just could not get over the change in him. Gabriel was this sweet, nerdy guy who got off on clock movements and antique pocket watches, but somewhere inside him was Sylar, a dark and (I suspected) dangerous man who had done things that required I regularly and viciously beat him within an inch of his life. I could not reconcile the two personalities.

When our food came, I started stuffing my face, just to give myself something to do. I wanted to rush through this meal so I could get the hell out of there and away from Gabriel. He took his time, cutting up his steak just so, while I wolfed everything on my plate.

"You'll give yourself indigestion," he observed quietly, and he was right, because in a few minutes, I felt like it all wanted to come back up on me. Slurping the wine, I swallowed hard, forcing everything back down into my stomach.

"Gabriel…Sylar…I don't care what you call yourself. This is freaking me out, and you aren't paying me enough to put up with this bullshit. Dinner is over." I stood and prepared to leave, but he suddenly reached out and grabbed me, though quite gently.

"Please," he said, his eyes imploring. "Don't go."

I looked into dark eyes that were filled with sadness, and against my better judgment, regained my seat. Leaning close to him, I hissed, "You are going to tell me what's going on here, or I will walk, and I will never see you again."

Staring at his plate for a long moment, he said, "I am Gabriel tonight. That's who I really am. Gabriel Gray, an inoffensive repairer of time pieces. Sylar is the monster that lives inside of me." He raised his eyes to mine and I saw they were filled with tears.

I'm a sucker for lost puppies and drowning goldfish. I heaved a huge sigh and placed my hand over his. "What do you want of me, Gabriel?"

"Just…be nice to me," he implored. "We're having dinner. Talk to me. Tell me about yourself."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Honey, this isn't a date. I stick you with knives and suck you off."

He winced and closed his eyes. "Not tonight," he whispered. "Let me be Gabriel for a while longer."

The guy was conflicted, no doubt about that, and something about Gabriel touched me in a place I hadn't realized still existed, that little corner inside of all us where innocence still lived. I relented. "Okay, Gabriel. Let's finish our dinner, chat about nothing of consequence, and pretend that we're normal."

He smiled in relief. "Thank you."

Part 4

After dinner, we walked back to the Torture Chamber. He took my arm and positioned himself between me and the street, as a gentleman would. For just a few minutes, I felt like a pretty girl out on a date with a handsome guy, but then I remembered that the last time we were together, I'd burned him with matches and he'd screamed in ecstasy when he came and the illusion was shattered.

Outside my door, he leaned close to me and pressed his lips to mine. He'd never kissed me before, and it took me by surprise. Swallowing, I said, "Want to try that again?" This time, his lips parted as they took possession of mine, and I felt his tongue slip between my teeth as he tasted me. I felt a tickle between my legs. Hm there were possibilities here.

"May I come in?" he asked.

"Sure." I flipped on some lights and threw my purse in the nearest chair. "Not exactly set up for company, but you're welcome to lay naked on the floor or even sit in a chair, if that's your kinky pleasure."

I saw him hide a small grin. "No bed?"

"Not here," I said. "This is where I work. What have you got in mind, Gabriel?"

Almost shyly, he pulled me into his arms. "I'd like to make love to you."

Huh. Make love. I tried to remember the last time I'd done that with someone I cared about.

Couldn't do it, it had been so long.

He placed his hands on either side of my face and kissed me deeply. It was a man's kiss, full of the promise of fire and redemption, and something inside me responded to it. I coiled my arms around him and gave in to the fantasy he was creating. We were just two average people who'd gone out to dinner, had a good time, and returned home to the possibility of something happening between us.

_Yeah, right._

But he was into it now, and I let myself be dragged along. Gabriel may have looked geeky, but he knew what he was doing. He kissed me and touched me until I was breathless with desire and wet between the legs. Moaning softly, I pressed myself hard against him. He did not let me hurry him along. He took his time, bringing me to each stage of arousal like a maestro, playing my body like the finest Stradivarius.

By the time we were undressed and he had me bent over a table he'd swept clean of everything on it, I was ready ready more than ready and finding it hard to wait a second longer. I pulled at him impatiently, wanting him inside me now _now_ NOW.

When he judged the time was right, he obliged me and I felt my insides melt around him. "Fuck me," I begged. "Fuck me so hard this table breaks."

He laughed low in his throat and thrust hard. I rose to meet him, blinded by the intensity of my feelings. The table didn't break, but not for lack of trying. I felt impaled on him as he stabbed me over and over with his cock until all the colors in my head turned red, then yellow, and I imploded like a dying sun.

_Jesus fucking Christ almighty…_

And before I even had time to catch my breath, he lifted me into his orgasm, screaming that primal sound that I had learned to expect and love. I rode it out with him, until our bodies quieted and we were ourselves again. Note to self: tables are not comfortable for love making. My back hurt for the next two days, but I considered it well worth it.

After he'd politely thanked me for a wonderful time and gotten dressed, I watched him throw several bills on the table and something inside me died.

"Not tonight, Gabriel," I said. "This one was on me."

Even as I watched, his eyes darkened with pain and took on that haunted look I now knew so well. "Thank you."

He left the money on the table when he walked out the door. Mewling softly like a hurt kitten, I curled up on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest, and cried for the man who'd given me such pleasure.

Part 5

I didn't do this. I didn't get involved with clients, not in any way. They were just a source of money to me. They paid the rent, the utility bills, and were the means by which I was getting my degree. Most of them were barely real to me, but Gabriel/Sylar had gotten under my skin somehow.

I started to feel like he was haunting me, because I began seeing him everywhere, in the way someone walked, the shape of a man's head, a flash of a dark eye. And every time I thought I glimpsed him, my heart lurched, the breath caught in my throat, and I was dizzy for a moment.

Days passed, and I didn't hear from him. Then days became weeks and I wondered if something had happened to him. Spring gave way to summer in the city, and heat waves rose from the burning sidewalks. I trudged to my classes, sweat running down my back and the sun beating on my head, and wished—not for the first time—that I lived in the country somewhere, in a house shaded by tall oak trees, with a carpet of wildflowers in my front yard.

New clients filled the time that used to be his, and the memory of him started to fade, as memories do, and I had almost gotten to the point where I no longer thought of him when, unexpectedly, he reentered my life.

I was leaving the Torture Chamber late one night after an unpleasant session with someone who insisted I piss into his mouth. I detest water sports and rarely acquiesce to such requests, but he offered me double the money, and because I needed to have some dental work done, I did it. So I was in a foul mood as I exited the building and turned left, heading for home, when for the first time in weeks, I thought I caught a glimpse of Sylar across the street. I took another look, and stopped in my tracks. It was really him this time, leaning against a lamp post, hands in the pockets of his black jeans. I started breathing again as he crossed the street toward me.

"Hi," he said softly.

I nodded at him. He looked good. His hair was shorter than I'd ever seen it, but it suited him, making him look younger. He'd shaved recently and the scruff was just starting to show, accentuating the clean lines of his face. His eyes were shadowed in darkness, though, and I couldn't see their expression. That sense of power he always exuded was still there, but muted this evening.

"Mind if I walk with you?"

I hesitated. Clients were never allowed to know where I lived. He understood immediately.

"Maybe we could go for coffee?"

That was okay. "Sure. There's a place down the street."

I headed toward a little café that stayed open until midnight, and he fell into step beside me. He was wearing the same distinctive scent he always used and which, in my mind had become indelibly linked with him, and my mouth went dry. I wanted to ask him where he'd been, what he'd been doing, but I knew better. We walked in silence, passing from darkness into light and back into darkness as we moved under street lights.

The café was a popular local hangout, and laughter spilled out the open front door. Small tables and a few chairs were scattered on the sidewalk under an awning, and we decided to remain outside. A waitress took our order for two coffees and left.

Golden light from the café's large front window poured over us and for the first time, I could clearly see his eyes. They were filled with gentle calmness, and I let myself relax. Something had changed for him in the time we'd been apart. I smiled at him, and he smiled back.

The waitress returned with our coffee and departed again immediately, leaving us alone. He looked down into his cup but did not drink. I found it impossible to take my eyes off his face.

"I'm leaving the city tonight," he said, not looking at me, "and I wanted to say goodbye and thank you for your…company." The corners of his mouth lifted, and he glanced up at me. "That last night…Gabriel? I finally realized that he is not 'the other,' but a part of me, and always will be. You helped me see that." He did sip his coffee then and I waited in silence for him to continue. A couple walked by arm in arm, led by a small white dog on a leash.

His eyes followed them down the street before shifting back to me. "Those things you did to me, the pain I made you inflict on me…" He shut his eyes briefly, as if to shut out the sight, and then sighed. "I had to experience all of that before I could see it wouldn't change me, wouldn't bring me the redemption I sought. That is why Gabriel came to you that last night, because suffering at your hands was not my salvation."

Impulsively, I laid my hand over his. "What is?"

He laughed shortly. "I'm not quite sure, but in acknowledging Gabriel's existence, I think I'm on the right path at last."

He would not be visiting me in the Torture Chamber again, and I was happy for him. He had faced his demons, embraced them, and was trying to figure out a way to live with them. But almost immediately, I felt sadness wash through me. I would not be seeing him again ever, anywhere, as Sylar or Gabriel, and while I would not miss those sessions in my night room, I would miss the man.

He sensed the change in me and interpreted it correctly. "The memory of that last night with you will remain with me forever," he said, eyes soft.

I gave him a small smile. That was my cue. I gathered all my strength and stood. Throwing a ten dollar bill on the table, I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

"Goodbye, Gabriel Sylar."

I walked away quickly, before he could hear the sound of my heart breaking, and I did not look back.

His voice followed after me, just two words. "Thank you."

End


End file.
